The Case of the Evil Eight
by DNPLC
Summary: What kind of tragedy would have torn Perry Mason from Della Street for almost 8 years? I've always hated that separation because it is inconsistent with the characters and story. I wrote this to make myself feel better. All critiques welcome!
1. Chapter 1

What paradigm shift could have torn Della & Perry's lives in two such different directions for almost eight long years? The separation annoys me—it's forced, inconsistent with their relationship, and sends too many mixed messages. As ever, I try and stick to the facts set down by the shows. For instance in The Return, over lunch Perry says many things that make it clear they saw each other often but Della says in the office later, "Have I told you it's good to see you again." I've made that about "working" together. This is not quite finished. It turned out to be much longer than I first thought and I want to finish the story of Paul's murder.

I'm going back to the fun repartee of their youthful years but I had to exorcise this demon.

_**The Case of the Evil Eight**_

_**Los Angeles and San Francisco, January 11**__**th**__**, 1985**_

Brutalized by another week at Gordon Industries, Della Street so hankered for a cocktail and a bath that food held negligible appeal, which was fortunate since for the first time in her life a few excess pounds were aggressively chasing her mid-section.

More than hot water or cold bourbon, however, she literally ached for Perry.

Their visits had grown increasingly sporadic these last three years, not even once every two months, although they had spent a lovely Christmas and New Year's together in Lake Tahoe.

They usually spoke several times a week but an entire week had passed since their last call. When he went missing like this, her mind always ran to another woman. As fine a man as he was, as solid as his integrity was, fidelity had not been his strong suit over the years and since his proclamation three years ago he had given himself, and her, free reign.

For Della, the problem was that despite _very_ earnest attempts by several exceptionally suitable candidates, Della had no interest in other men. Initially she blamed the empty suits and their colorless worlds; they were not Perry Mason. No one could fill his shoes. Of course, often the man himself couldn't fill his shoes, either.

Della realized eventually that the flaw was not in the men but in she herself. For Della there simply was no other man. Even in a town like Los Angeles where "love" was wrapped in Hollywood's celluloid package of romantic perfection Perry Mason and Della Street's affair was the stuff of legend. Their grand passion, concealed by their talent, drive, dedication, which had produced wild success, had been ignited by common appetites and a primal chemistry.

The more they were together the more they seemed to crave one another. For 12, 14 hours a day they worked so intimately often their elbows were touching but that was all that touched. They never addressed one another with affectionate names; even when they were alone they maintained their formality fearing that becoming lax while alone could mean mistakes when they were not.

And they tried, valiantly even, to stick to that.

After the first few years, however, there were small moments of seduction "just to get them through the day," as Perry used to say. Della might untangle her garters placing the foot of one of those movie star legs on a chair. When a weary Perry slumped in his chair, so adept at giving him a massage was Miss Street that his lap would have to stay hidden under his desk for a good, long while.

Perry had his little pleasures, too. When Della wore the shirtwaist dresses he loved with their full skirts, he would stroke the inside of her knee all the way up to her thigh, not stopping until she was shifting uncomfortably in her chair, head buried in his chest grasping at his lapels. Della had a couple of sweaters that drove him mad; a tight black turtle neck with which she always wore her "DS" pendent and mohair sweaters in white and pale pink. Wearing these meant she would end up in the law library at some point, panting at the mercy of his hands and mouth.

After work they had cocktails, went to dinner, danced as much as was seemly, then slipped away to one of their apartments to revel in one another and release the sexual tension that had built up during the day, or just pass out from exhaustion in each other's arms.

They tried to make it home before it was necessary to remove all of their clothes but they didn't always make it and by the time they were in their mid-40s, they cared less. Perry was in such demand and they were in the office such long hours that they often had to lock the doors to satisfy their lust on one of the couches, the terrace or his desk…and then go back to work.

At times their passion was so intense that it threatened to overwhelm them prompting a dark, private joke about their _folie a deux_. And maybe, in some ways, their life _was_ a bit of a fantasy they were so caught in one another's vortex and an extremely intense and glamorous work life.

Perry never thought he would find his soul mate, his ideal, his Nora Charles. In finding Della he held tight, she so exceeded the dream. Della always assumed she would marry and have a family and there were times, as she got older, that it shocked and pained her that she hadn't. But from the moment she met Perry she knew that he would be the only man she would ever love and this is how their life had evolved.

Della felt as married to Perry as a person could feel, always had and always would, even if their rings were only matching pinkie rings. So, regardless of Perry's stunning, game changing suggestion a few years back, there were no suitors for Della Street. When Perry was himself, which was rare these days, they saw one another and, of course there were work dinners with her current boss, Arthur Gordon.

Poor Arthur tried everything to win Della's affections. Accustomed to pampered women whose beauty came from spas and knives, jars and injections, Della was as bracing and sparkling as the first snow of winter.

Della gave him her opinion, whether he wanted it or not and let him know, in her sassy way, when he behaved badly. She worked until a job was done, regardless of the hour, had a natural affinity for the business world and could win over just about anyone; except his wife. Praise from Gordon was rare unless you were Della Street. Of course, she exceled at a level few could replicate, realizing the impossible with grace and stamina, beauty and elegance.

Late one evening, after a few vodkas he teased her, "Sugar and spice and everything nice… I didn't think women like you existed anymore, Della."

"Well," she laughed. "We're getting old, Arthur—the breed is dying out!"

"So what's wrong with this Mason anyway?" Both the question and Gordon's piercing eyes took Della by surprise. "I've always heard he was the most brilliant legal mind in the country. He doesn't seem too bright to me."

Della just shook her curls in resignation and gave him a sad, little smile. If there hadn't been a Perry Mason, and a Mrs. Gordon, it's just possible Arthur would have gotten his fondest wish.

But there was most definitely a Perry Mason. Della had been letting him believe she exercised her "freedom" as prodigiously as she imagined he was exercising his. Loathing games, though, and touched any time he tried to determine who she was seeing in an uncharacteristically artless way, she questioned deception as a strategy.

"You two idiots," she could hear Paul Drake, Sr. say in her mind. How she missed him, how they both missed him; even if he were just chiding his best friends about their relationship, which he loved to do. Tears formed in her eyes. She would give just about anything to see him walk in the door and say, "Hi, Beautiful."

The memory and deep pain of missing their best friend was the last straw and her pride, as always, would have to suffer. Damn.

"Judge Mason's office."

"Good evening Kelly how are you?"

Kelly hated when _she_ called; hated being jealous of a 62 year-old woman still so beautiful that she turned heads any time she entered the room. Hated the cognac voice that even made her tingle when she heard it; hated how talking to the self-effacing Della Street left her feeling insecure and wasted her boss until he was totally detached and unapproachable.

Kelly had just begun making _inroads_ with Perry Mason, too—chasing away a judge, a junior D.A. and an MD to do it. Miss Della Street's presence, although rare these last few years, was still very unwelcome.

Kelly thought about lying but knew better; Della Street probably still knew his schedule better than she did, knew that at 7PM on Friday night Perry Mason was at his desk listening to his favorite jazz show on public radio. So, she did as she had been told on her first day, "Don't ask, don't announce, just put Miss Street through to my private line immediately."

"Mason."

"Hi," she purred in her drawn out way.

That voice coiled around his senses making his heart skip a beat. He had been working so hard this past week that he hadn't realized how lonely for her he was until he heard her voice in his ear. There she was on the line, his beautiful girl.

"Hi, Baby… What are you doing?" He voice was deep and low.

_Baby_—it made her tear up. Perry almost sounded like his old self and it couldn't have happened on a night she needed it more.

"Same thing you're doing, of course."

"Remember when we saw Miles in Paris?"

"Mmm hmm…"

"How's my girl?" Della sounded off.

If only she were still a girl, thought Della. This would all be so much easier. Maybe.

"Oh, a long, nasty day… week really."

Perry closed his eyes and breathed deeply, "You… a bottle of merlot … and a soak in our tub?"

Della was heartened at how wistful he sounded and that he called it "our" tub.

"Bourbon; in fact I may fill the tub with it and get in with a giant straw." Their laughter collapsed on each other.

"Now _that's _my kind of cocktail, Miss Street_!_" Perry was happy for the first time in a week.

"I have an extra straw," Della chuckled at the sound that elicited.

"What is it, baby? Gordon?" Perry had stopped what he was doing now, settling his large frame back in his chair.

Why did that damn word always make her feel as if he had just kissed her?

"A Gordon, yes, but the female type; I can manage Arthur just fine—as it happens, I'm a whiz with difficult men," Perry closed his eyes, imagining she was batted her lashes and pursing her beautiful lips. "Paula and her threats, however, stretch the limits of even _my_ good humor."

"And Della Street does not frazzle easily," he tried to sound light-hearted but the idea of anyone hurting Della…of course he had a lot of room to talk.

"I suppose when you're married to a man who doesn't love you anymore and who spends _his_ days and evenings with the most gorgeous, capable woman..."

He was jealous, as always. How could he break her heart, suggesting they see other people, and then be jealous? It was incomprehensible, even for the emotional roller coaster that Perry Mason had become these last eight years; the "Evil Eight," as Della had nicknamed them this year. (They had been preceded by the "Sinister Seven" and would be followed by the "Nightmare Nine." If there was going to be a tenth year she had already decided to skip the cute name and spend it blind drunk.)

"He's married Perry. He's a married man and even his poor choice in wives does not negate this."

There was silence at the other end for a while. "Where you're concerned, my girl, my common sense has always suffered for jealousy. You know that." His voice sounded uncharacteristically delicate; perhaps the irony wasn't lost on him after all.

Recently Della had begun to surmise that her pain was actually collateral damage. Hurting her was merely an unintended consequence of Perry Mason's main target: Perry Mason. Tonight his voice was ringed with suffering and his pain overwhelmed hers. Since she never could hurt anyone, especially Perry, she decided to take a chance, one more chance, at righting them.

"I shouldn't tell you this. You don't deserve it," Della took a moment leaning back in her pillows, tucking her long legs beneath her and contemplating the bourbon in her glass. What the Hell, it was the truth.

"I don't… avail myself of your open relationship thingy. Not that I didn't try," she added quickly. "Goose, gander you know; but _my_ relationship is still… closed; too closed I guess as I seem to be the only one in it."

Perry's breathing was loud and measured but even the ice in her glass had a resigned sound to it. As jealous as he was of her, as often as he worried that there were other men thanks to his own fragility, stupidity and fear, what she had just admitted wasn't a surprise to him. In fact, in his heart he knew all along that no matter what he proposed and no matter what he did, Della Street would go no further than dinner with any other man.

There was a long silence, which Della chose to ride out wondering what might be on the other end.

"What are we going to do?" Perry asked her in a stern, despondent voice.

Della's heart broke at the sadness in his voice but she couldn't let him get away with it or she would never get him back.

"_We_, Perry? It's not 'we'—it never was. What do _you_ suggest? Because I don't know what else to do, my love. I don't know why you've pushed me away. I don't know why you ran away to San Francisco after we had made a decision on this issue. I'm in the dark and _I simply do not know_ what else to do."

"I know, Della," he said angrily although his anger wasn't for her. She knew it, too. Softening his voice he continued. "We need a weekend."

A weekend.

A weekend?

"We need _a lot more_ than a weekend. We need _a lot more_ than a roll in the hay, Counselor."

"That's roll in the hay, Your Honor, madam," he corrected.

"Not to me; never to me," Della corrected back with steel in her voice; despite the fact that the image of making love to him in chambers in his robe….Damn, she thought to herself.

"Stubborn girl. How soon can you get away, baby?"

"You're lucky I'm stubborn, Counselor," Della, drained, knew she was caving; knew that his voice when it was full of love as it was tonight even if it was rare these days, was the only voice she wanted to hear.

"I know." Perry wanted to kick himself, suddenly realizing that in his longing for her he had made a mistake that was going to hurt her….again.

"A weekend—not terribly generous with your time," she was purring again, flirting, knowing that that voice of hers drove him mad. "But I suppose if I tried hard I could make the 10PM shuttle from Burbank…"

Gentle and wise, Della always put them—him—first, proving endlessly generous with her heart and positively elastic with resilience. But Perry could tell that his fear for her and anger at the world, manifested as little more than callous selfishness at this point. The girl was stretched about as far as she could go; and, as she kept reminding him, she wasn't a "girl" anymore.

Now he had invited her up tonight without any time to actually see her. Being an appellate court judge meant an endless round of social commitments, which he had always hated, and he was booked for the next month. Every weekend was filled with events, dinners or benefits. Perry knew that _Della_ knew that he would be escorted to these events and they both knew she could have been the escort as she had for more than 30 years.

Except that he didn't want to be seen so publicly with her; not when it compromised her safety.

All he could do was _hope._

"What about Valentine's Day weekend, young lady?"

Ah, the well-known "un-invitation," as she had come to call them—five weeks away. Why did he even bother she always wondered? Della's small, tender laugh was meant to mask her pain but it was too small.

Perry knew that this one, this one was _bad_.

Almost inaudibly she said, "Oh, Counselor…not fair. Not fair at all. You win, my love. I give up."

"Della…" but she had hung up.


	2. Chapter 2

_**San Francisco, January 18**__**th**__**, 1985**_

Now, because of his "position," and his own incredible stupidity, he had to truss himself up in the full formal regalia he hated, hobble on a lousy knee to an event he didn't want to attend and avoid the overzealous romantic intentions of a striking woman he didn't enjoy. In addition Perry would be surrounded by punctilious bores who thought they were crafting the Bill of Rights not writing case law.

Whereas he _could_ have been picking up his girl at the airport in a few hours taking her to his apartment where they could have talked and made love all weekend—and at this point he needed her mind even more than her body. Someone had to help him out of this labyrinthine mess that had been created, in part by Perry himself, and Della was the only one who could do it.

Within months he had realized that he hated this job, just as the all-seeing Della Street had predicted. Being a judge was an "honor" merely thrust upon him and while on paper it may have sounded enticing the reality was his immeasurable gifts lay elsewhere.

How the Hell did he end up here? As with so many unfortunate questions in his life, the answer was Laura Robertson; or perhaps that was not fair. Tragic events had conspired to bring him here. Laura enabled the situation, though, and admittedly he still felt a pull toward her, toward the difficult nature of her soul.

While down in Los Angeles, alone and hurt thanks to him, was the perfect woman; an amazing creature instrumental in his rise, always impressed by him, witty and fun, sexy and kind, who just happened to love Perry not despite who he was but _because_ of it. God knows she deserved some kind of medal for that alone.

Is this what a mid-life crisis was; forcing from your life the only thing that ever mattered to you? Or was this purely the result of mortal fear?

Perry sat on the edge of his desk anticipating the Hell of putting on his tuxedo and wondering how he, of all people, had become an out-of-control train that jumped its track and more importantly how the Hell he was going to get back on.

Perry sighed. The truth was that either way he couldn't have Della in his life but this way at least, she was alive.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Los Angeles, Brent Building, May 2**__**nd**__**, 1977**_

"Laura!" Della Street did an uncommonly lousy job of covering her dismay at seeing Perry's ex before her, which Laura enjoyed enormously. Standing at the round table in Perry's office she had been concentrating so deeply she didn't hear her come in. Now she was cornered.

"Della, dear," Laura cooed, moving in oozing a manufactured charm that would have amused Della… in any other woman.

"Laura, it's nice to see you. Was Perry expecting you?" Della was uncomfortable that he hadn't told her she was coming.

"Perry's always expecting me," said Laura pointedly. "How have you been?"

"Fine, just fine; thank you and you?" Della was waiting for it.

"The practice is doing quite well, actually. Now there's talk of political office-very flattering but life is frenetic. Fortunately my husband is very supportive but sometimes I long for a much more uncomplicated life; just a regular old job…_you_ know." Laura gestured toward what Della's pile of work on the table.

There it was.

"Actually, I've never longed for any job but the one I have," Della managed to say this with dignity and elegance, which Laura admired.

"I suppose that's true; steadfast and loyal, hmm? How is my boy?"

"It amazes me but he always seems to get busier, even when I think we can't pack anyone else into his schedule," Della said honestly.

"Doesn't leave much room for a personal life, I suppose. Poor Perry needs to settle down. But then he never could _settle,_" Laura smiled without a smidgen of grace. "Well, I'm sure someday when he finds someone special enough he will. Frankly, in this day and age he's not even too old to become a father."

Della saw a shadow in the doorway and judging by the deep-set creases on his brow he was taking in Mrs. Robertson's performance.

"Laura, what a surprise; to what do we owe this honor?" Perry approached the women. When Laura moved in to him, Perry gave her a brief, friendly peck on the cheek then leaned on the table next to Della, encircling her waist with his arm. Perry did this casually as if it happened every day, when in fact he had never done anything like this in front of anyone at the office.

"Well," said Laura looking uncomfortably at him while indicating Della with a subtle dip of her delicate chin, "I did need to speak to you about something."

"Della knows more about what's going around here than I do," Perry, her armor, pulled her close.

Almost corpulent, with more gray in his hair, Perry was still undeniably handsome; perhaps more so than at any other time in his life, thought Laura who was mesmerized by how blue his eyes still were. There was an air about him, a distingué star quality that now had more to do with his power than his matinee idol looks. Imposing, his carriage was still straight and even more forceful but Perry now possessed an endearing vulnerability well hidden in the past by his youthful arrogance. And yet he was no longer vulnerable to her wiles, it seemed.

Sitting next to him was the reason why; a very beautiful reason. Laura knew that she was many years younger than Della but despite this Della actually looked to be the younger woman. There was something maternal and yet, at the same time, kittenish about Della Street and for the first time Laura understood exactly what drew Perry to her; those two opposing sides, both of which he needed so desperately—someone to take care of but someone who could also take care of him.

"Well, we don't need a secretary for this," Laura smiled sweetly.

"No but I may need Della so why don't you let me be the judge. Let's sit," Perry countered freeing Della from Laura's web and moving her over to the desk.

"Now, what is this about? Do you need representation?" Perry managed to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

Indicating Laura take the chair in front of his desk, he pulled out Della's chair and guided her into it by the elbow. Looking up she gave him a tender, grateful smile, and Perry winked.

"No, actually, it's about you, Perry. And funny you should mention being a judge because it is about your career, about that very thing." Perry and Della's eyebrows were raised.

"As you know I have, it seems, a nascent political career and I've become quite good friends with a few well-placed people, including the Governor. Recently he expressed his desperate need for qualified Appellate judges and when I mentioned that you were a former beau, well, he begged me to recruit you."

When Laura had finished she had a triumphant look on her face but Perry was looking at Della, which annoyed Laura immensely. "Laura, you know, as well as I do that I have never aspired to be a judge."

"Perry people change, goals change. Don't you feel stagnate here in this little office?" Della could feel herself growing flushed with anger but Perry just chortled.

"Why would I? I try cases all over the world and do it the way I want; as I always have. You know, what you never understood about me the way some people do, some people who share the same pleasure, is my love of the chase."

This time when Perry smiled at Della it was a wide and unfamiliar, a smile clearly reserved for one person—a grin so expansive it revealed a gap in his teeth on the right side of his mouth that when exposed made him look like an adorable little boy.

Deeply irritated, Laura asked, "Chasing what, Perry? An ulcer? A heart attack?"

Perry couldn't help himself, laughing hard. "Laura, work actually _relieves_ my stress. I love the detective work even more than trying cases. As it happens I'm also in fine physical condition through no fault of my own. Despite my efforts to the contrary, Della means to see me around for a long time."

"Detective work? Paul's the detective." Laura ignored all references to Della and how well she was caring for Perry.

"Paul's the operative," said Della who couldn't contain herself any longer. "And a great one; but Perry's the detective. Those are _his_ instincts, _his_ leads that direct them to the answers; it's all Perry. Paul would tell you that, too."

"But this… _this_ could be the start of great things!" Laura said looking at Perry.

"The start!" yelped Della standing up with her hand on her hip, eyes ablaze. "I'm sure it couldn't have escaped your notice that Perry is considered the finest defense attorney in the country and a great orator in such demand that if I booked him every day for a year I couldn't fulfill all of the speech and lecture requests.

Perry knows everyone you know. Surely you must have at least suspected that he has been offered numerous appointments, book contracts, television shows, why he's even been vetted for," Della halted knowing she was saying too much and sat back down. "Well… he has rejected everything because he's already doing what he loves."

Leaning back in his chair, fist on his chin, Perry was enjoying Della's indignation on his behalf. One hand, that's how many fingers Perry needed to count the times he had seen Della lose her temper. It was rare but when her heel was bouncing the way it was right now, she was_ livid, _and extraordinarily sexy. Leaning into his desk, Perry let the fingers of his left lazily stroll from Della's slim calf to her knee where it veered off to behind her knee and up her thigh beneath her skirt.

Laura was incensed that Della would break into their conversation but it was worse that Perry was sanctioning her behavior. "Della… _dear_… I understand that you wouldn't want to have to find another position but this is Perry's decision and really none of your…"

Perry, as protective of his secretary as she was of her boss, cut his ex-lover off before she could finish. "Everything, Laura, absolutely everything in my life is Della's business and frankly, that fact has nothing to do with… _business_."

So, they might actually be together, thought Laura, a sickness roiling the pit of her stomach as she watched his left arm under the desk.

"Forgive me, Perry. It never occurred to me," Laura's brittle, Continental voice now sheer saccharine.

"I don't think that's true old friend," Perry smiled as kindly as possible—he didn't like having to take shots.

"So, is Della speaking for you now?" The 'old friend' remark hit its target exactly as planned.

"In this instance she is. We are not interested in a judgeship or in relocating. We'll just have to hang around here and do 'small' things." The word "together" was merely implied.

Laura's chest tightened when he used the word "we." With her warmth and sunny disposition, her sassy, adventurous, one-of-the-fellas personality and her stunning, natural beauty, Della Street had gotten her man. Or, had Perry Mason gotten his woman; scrutinizing him now, the way he protected her, the look in his eyes—all at once she doubted that it was sweet, little Miss Street who had been the predator all of these years.

As hard as it was to imagine Perry Mason in such a pedestrian relationship—in love with his secretary after all—even she could see that Della Street was different.

Paul Drake, one of Laura's least favorite people, burst in the back door breaking the silence in a jarring way. "Hey, Perry listen…Oh, I'm sorry."

"Paul," said Laura sweetly.

"Laura!" Paul stopped short.

"You seem so surprised to see me."

"I'm never surprised to see you, Mrs. Robertson," said Paul lighting a cigarette, and under his breath, "Just horrified."

"Hiya', Beautiful," Paul walked over behind Della's chair, bent down and gave her a squeeze… then reached around to steal her coffee.

"I'm just pouring myself two cups from now on," Della sighed shaking her head and standing with an indulgent smile. Then she reached up and gave his cheek a pat; after all of these years, she knew when one of her boys was trying to protect her, whether it was Perry, Paul and or little Paul.

"Listen, Pal," he said to Perry. "I've got news so…" Paul was indicating it was time for Mrs. Robertson to depart—for many reasons.

"Subtlety never was your strong suit, Mr. Drake," Laura delivered her sarcasm with a certain élan, Paul had to admit it.

"Nor yours, Madam Senator-to-be," Smiled Paul, giving his adversary a slight bow and plenty of élan in return.

Over the decades Paul often said, for both Della and Perry, the things they couldn't say; to the police, to witnesses…even to each other. Now he was letting Perry know it was time to get rid of "the other woman," who had hurt Della while also letting her know that he had her back. Della put her arm through his and gave him a little hug.

"Laura you'll have to excuse us now," Perry who had been standing next to her chair took her small hand in his, with warm feelings momentarily returning from the past. "We are in the middle of a particularly grueling case."

"So I've read. Well, if you change your mind..." Somewhat mollified, Laura went to the door with Perry on her elbow.

Every now and again Laura was capable of a genuine moment, she was about to have one that would probably hold her for a decade.

"Perry," Laura regarded him with soft eyes, "Be careful. I don't like what I'm reading in the press about this case and public opinion seems… irrational. I'm afraid it could turn out badly."

"We've never gotten death threats before," Perry leaned against the door, his head down. "We had the FBI here for over a week. Della has been imploring me to drop this case—first time in almost 30 years. She'll ask me to take a case, never to drop one."

Perry was looking over at Della now. He smiled knowing that she was trying hard to keep her head down, give him privacy to say good-bye to someone once important to him—perhaps still a bit more important than she should have been—someone with whom a renewed relationship 20 years ago threatened to end their then-new relationship. Tonight he would make today up to her; a promise that he knew in advance Paul was going to try and extract from him, too.

"Well, you've always regarded your ladies' opinions highly. I see no reason to stop now." Laura patted his cheek and left quietly.

"What in _the_ Hell was that all about?" said Paul sucking on a cigarette, making Perry deeply envious.

"I get very envious when you smoke in front of me," Perry good-naturedly chastised Paul.

"No sympathy," Paul nodded toward Della, who smiled at him and looked down.

Perry gave them his broadest smile, "I know. I win."

"But don't forget," Paul had a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "She's still the mother of my child."

Perry and Della started laughing.

"Oh, you, two! What am I going to do with you?"

Della descended on Paul stealing two cigarettes from the pack in his sport coat pocket then passing them off to Perry. While Della poured fresh coffee for three, Perry lit their cigarettes and handed one back to her with a grateful smile.

"Well, I think it's customary, is it not, after the, you-know-what we just got?" Paul, who had just taken a sip of coffee choked, and two sets of stunned, blue eyes went wide in her direction.

"So what did the Dragon Lady want anyway," asked Paul when he could breathe again.

Della giggled at this; Perry did not.

Della tried stifling her laughter, "Our Ms. Robertson wants the Counselor to take a judgeship, an appellate court judgeship mind, up in San Francisco; at which the Counselor would, of course be exemplary, but which we feel is not exactly right for him at this time."

Paul watched and listened with admiration at Perry Mason's secretary. "I sense some fireworks. Did Miss Street actually lose her well-manicured cool?"

"Thing of beauty," Perry's dimples were so deep that Della wanted to take him in her arms right then.

"Well, she always was…" remarked Paul with a twinkle in his eye.

Della rolled her eyes then batted her lashes at him. "Actually the Counselor was his gallant self. He stepped in front of a number of bullets for me. Didn't you?"

"Della definitely brings out a cruel streak in her, only time _I've_ ever seen it."

"I dunno'," said Paul rolling his eyes. "I think you oughta' look a little closer."

Perry knew he was absolutely correct but let the remark pass.

"One thing I never envisioned for myself was being stuck in a room with a bunch of old men discussing theory; it's hard to think of anything less appealing. Can you just see it?"

"No!" they both shouted in unison.

"All right, let's get down to business boys," Della sat back down in her place, pencil poised over her pad. Now 55 years old she still looked and acted like a kid to Perry.

"If you insist on staying with this case, Counselor, we have some digging to do. I'm going to head to the Times' archives and maybe City Hall…I have a few hunches. It's so clear that he's innocent now where ever do we go from here?"

Perry just turned to Paul and grinned proudly over his coffee cup.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Los Angeles County Courthouse, May 17**__**th**__**, 1977 **_

Perry Mason hated leaving court after working a high profile case. For decades the press had hounded them but in the 50s and 60s there was a sense of fair play. Photographers _asked_ for photos, he and Della obliged and then it was over. Men wore hats, women wore gloves and people comported themselves with dignity.

For all of this decade's claims about peace, love and teaching the world to sing, America was angry with a malevolent fury that exploded all over its purple mountains majesty. You could see it in the clothes, watch it on the news, hear it in the music and even see it in sitcoms. When he was leaving court after a hotly contested case such as this one, the wrath manifested itself on a very human level and Perry found himself chin-to-chin with the insanity.

There was a crush of people surrounding them pushing, shoving, jamming mikes or cameras in their faces-unadulterated mob mentality. Perry, a stone wall, could take care of himself but Della was always his worry. Forever navigating three-inch heels and now older, although he would never say that _to_ her for fear of getting a sock in the jaw-Della was also debilitated by her unerring good manners. Nothing said "back off" like a well-placed elbow.

Dynamite that's what this case was, prompting too much press and too many lunatics. Tempers had flared continuously since they signed on a month ago led by a contingent of vigilantes who maintained that his client was guilty despite mounting evidence to the contrary. Today, for instance, explosive testimony from prosecution had been methodically dismantled by Perry in a series of grueling cross-examinations that astonished everyone.

It was Della who broke the case.

For four days she endured the dark, dusty bowels of the _Los Angeles Times_ morgue and City Hall's records department, hunting down the pasts of two other much more viable suspects. The overwhelming evidence she uncovered steered Paul and Perry to leads that were very effective today and were going to be devastating tomorrow when the defense began.

For some reason, however, everyone from the press to the public to, of course, the other suspects still wanted to angrily pin the rap on his client who happened to be an illegal alien from North Korea. Perry had taken the case to help his old friend Gary Decker who owned the restaurant in which the young man worked, and was, Perry suspected, his father; a product of his tour in Korea during the conflict.

Perry kept an eagle eye on Della a few feet in front of him, while continuously mumbling, "No comment." With his operatives surrounding the perimeter, Paul Drake stayed three stairs up and behind Perry at all times so he could survey everything in front of them. Even a seasoned veteran at the top of his game found the task was too great today. Swelling, the crowd around them moved and morphed like a living thing, threatening to swallow them whole.

Della shivered but she couldn't say why, all she knew was that something was off. Over the years she had gotten attuned to evil approaching. When people made fun of her "women's intuition" Perry would shake his head somberly, informing them they ignored her instincts at their own peril. Normally serene, when Della was anxious Perry went on high alert; she was never wrong.

Well, she felt it now; an absolute terror stalking them. Beginning to get frantic, she twisted around to look for Perry, relieved when she saw him two steps behind and just off to her right. But turning to face forward again, Della met the evil she had only felt.

In front of her and just off to Della's left stood Celia Childs. Childs, as had been exposed earlier in the day, was a lover of the murder victim; a lover with a great deal to hide as it turned out. In court she had seemed presentable, attractive even. Standing here her hair seemed to have been chopped at uncertain angles, her mouth smeared with cracking, ancient, lipstick and her eyes were like black marbles, sharp, mean and wild with misplaced anger.

Suddenly Della saw Childs' hand raising a gun and aiming directly at the center of her world.

Della's heart literally stopped. There was little time to think let alone warn him. Throwing her briefcase at the woman bought her some time so she could get to him.

Turning, Della stepped directly in front of Perry. Happily surprised to see her pretty face in front of him, Perry smiled until their eyes met. In those beautiful eyes Perry Mason saw death.

A split second later, the unmistakable sound of gun shots followed.

Della reached for Perry, who dropped his briefcase and reached out for her. As if in slow motion he watched her head fly back and heard the small cry that escaped her lips as she was thrown forward into him. Enfolding her in his arms, her curls against his chin, he looked down over her shoulder to see blood rapidly spreading across the back of her white coat.

"Della!" Perry screamed holding her as she began slipping to the ground. Sitting on the steps he cradled her in his lap for what seemed an eternity. In the background Paul was screaming for an ambulance then a police officer yelled "officer down" into his radio. Faces he recognized surrounded them but they were all thrown into shadow around Della.

Della was struggling to speak, but he stopped her, "No baby, don't waste your energy."

Wincing in pain, she gave a weak nod.

"Ambulance is on its way, Perry," Paul had his shoulder. Crouching down he cupped Della's cheek, "Hold on beautiful. Help is on its way."

Perry was holding her close as her gentle smile started to fade. Quietly Perry commanded her, "Della. Stay with me. Stay with me."

When Della raised her hand to touch his face, Perry put his cheek in her palm and held it there. Bringing her graceful fingers to his lips he kissed them gently. Beneath her they were both soaked with her blood.

When they heard the ambulance coming a shaking Paul screamed, "C'mon." Helping Perry lift her they carried her down the many stairs to meet the ambulance. Tears formed in Paul's eyes as paramedics loaded Della in, wondering if he would ever see his beautiful friend alive again.

In the ambulance the team worked furiously. They lost her a few blocks from the hospital but managed to bring her back with Perry in her ear imploring her not to leave him; that he would die without her. It was no exaggeration.

"Wow," admired the young paramedic, "Gorgeous _and_ tough!"

Della smiled her indomitable smile as sweet and as true as a child's and more familiar to him than any other sight in the world. When her eyes opened again Perry stared into them trying to memorize every fleck of color. They were always a mystery to him, her eyes, their color not brown, not green, not hazel, somehow all and more. Kissing her fingers again, she ran the tip of her middle finger over his bottom lip.

"Baby," Perry pressed his lips to her ear and whispered, "Baby if you go, I'm going, too. Make no mistake. I won't stay around here without you. If you go, I go."

Della's smile was gone; Perry had gotten his point across. They were in for the fight of their lives, but they were both in it.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Los Angeles, Cedars-Sinai, May 17**__**th**__**, 1977 **_

The ER nurse took Della's information from Perry running alongside the gurney because he refused to be parted from her even by force. In one long sentence he ordered, not asked, that his personal physician be called and told to come at once. Then, in a rare instance of using his name, insisted on Cedar Sinai's finest surgeons and was immediately obliged.

After all, no one wanted to face Perry Mason in a medical malpractice case.

Della was still in her suit when they took her into surgery, where they finally physically stopped Perry Mason from following. "Della, remember what I said," he said as they wheeled her away.

When he went to the waiting room, everyone was there. Paul Sr. and Jr. flanked Gertie whose mascara was dripping down her blouse; the rest of the office staff; their colleagues from the courthouse some of whom they had known since the forties; the D.A. and three assistant D.A.'s, including the late Hamilton Burger's oldest daughter, Kelly who had tears in her eyes, had all come wordlessly taking a seat to wait with Perry.

When his doctor arrived Perry jumped up but Dr. Jacobson raised his hand. "I'll go find out what's happening, Perry; be right back."

But he wasn't right back, he didn't come back for nearly an hour and when he did the news was not good. They were all quiet as he started.

"The best thing I have to report is that all three bullets missed her heart and lungs."

"Three?" Paul exclaimed.

"She's lost a lot of blood," Jacobson continued looking at Perry. "They've given her 7 pints so far and still have a ways to go," he looked down, removing his glasses. "Perry, they've lost her twice on the table. They just can't get her stabilized."

Perry, dropping back into his chair took the flask Paul offered him. But Perry wasn't hearing or seeing anyone. "Come on, pal, drink up. It's good scotch. You know I wouldn't give you the rot-gut I drink." Perry grabbed the flask and drank the contents in one long draught.

Three hours later, when the surgeons came out everyone started to back away, to give Perry privacy. Although the only thing he wanted was to be left alone with her, after almost 30 years some of Della's thoughtful nature had rubbed off on him, and he stopped their friends from leaving. After all, these people loved her, too.

"Mr. Mason," the older surgeon started after a deep breath, threading his fingers through his hair a few times. "She's alive, not stable but alive. We lost her three times, even with 12 pints of blood. All we can do now is wait and hope; if we can get her through the next 12 hours she will likely pull through. But…Mr. Mason, it's not good. They will be taking her up to ICU soon."

"When can I see her?" Perry's voice came out as if someone had their hands firmly around his larynx and was choking.

"I'm sorry Mr. Mason. You can't see her you…"

Interrupting, Perry unfolded to his full height and spoke with no room for argument, "She will be terrified. She will need to hear my voice."

Staring at the famous attorney the surgeon wisely realized that he was most certainly _not_ the one who was going to win an argument with Perry Mason.

"Look as soon as we can we'll let you see her for just a moment. In the meantime if anyone wants to donate blood…" relieved to be able to turn from those penetrating eyes, the surgeon indicated a nurse who would arrange it in a neighboring room.

"We're all in," said one of the assistant D.A.'s, "Whatever we can do for Miss Street."

Paul, Jr., who had been sitting by himself, eyes swollen, his pale blue oxford wet with tears, got up to follow the nurse. Not having seen his biological mother since she left him on his dad's doorstep when he was 8, Della was the only mother he had known these last 11 years.

When he was sick with a cold, it was Della who took the day off to sit with him, making him soup and bringing him coloring books. Della baked his birthday cakes every February, filled his Easter baskets each April, bought his school clothes every August and took him trick or treating in October. When his birthday or Christmas rolled around she dragged Perry and Paul through the toy departments, always knowing exactly what he wanted.

At school she attended recitals, plays and games, baked cupcakes for holiday parties, signed his permission slips and occasionally went on class trips when Perry could spare her. Della taught Paul, Jr. how to dance and treat a girl. When the time came for "_the_" talk, Della coached Perry and Paul before letting them talk to little Paul, amused at their obvious discomfort during her lecture.

"Sure, you, two rounders can make a lot of noise with us ladies but you can't explain the "birds 'n the bees" to a little boy," Della got a big kick out of their predicament. In the end, of course, she did it herself with the two of them standing behind Jr.'s bedroom door like school girls.

In his junior year she helped him with his college applications and in the summer before college took him shopping to outfit his dorm room. And it was Della who, when they "caravanned in two cars," as Paul suggested to get Jr. and "all of his junk" to school for his freshman year, cried all the way home because the 18 year-old had had trouble letting go of her when they sent him off to orientation.

Perry had issues with Jr., and was admittedly a little jealous of the attention he got from Della. But seeing the kid in pain and thinking of Della's love for him brought Perry momentarily out of his own anguish. "Paul?"

Paul, Jr. walked over to Perry when he motioned to him. Sitting next to his dad's best friend Perry put an arm around the kid pulling him into his massive shoulder. Paul bent forward and started crying again.

"I know son," they sat like that, crying together. Paul came over and sat on the other side of Jr. his arm around the kid, a hand on his best friend's shoulder.

Soon everyone was moved up to the ICU where Della was headed. Perry walked into recovery without so much as a by-your-leave, and found his girl. Nurses gasped, pointed, even scowled in his general direction but no one dared stand in his way.

When he found Della he had to work hard to stay upright. Most of her lovely face was obscured by tubes and what was visible was as white as snow. Running two fingers over the widow's peak he loved, he brushed her brow with his lips. Despite whispering to her everything that was in his heart, he fell miserably short.

They shooed him away once they got her to the ICU doors, although a very young nurse who had been watching Della's vitals closely as Perry hovered over the bed wondered about the wisdom of that. Leading the distraught attorney out by the arm she said, "Mr. Mason, I'm Katie. I'll take care of her, I promise."

"If it looks at all like…" but his tears stopped him from talking.

"I'll get you. Don't worry." There was a gentle, kind look in her hazel eyes that he recognized well.

After an hour two of the nurses went on break leaving Katie and another nurse alone. Perry jumped up when Katie came to the door and motioned to him. "Just a few minutes, okay?"

Unable to speak, Perry just nodded. Once again he put his lips next to Della's ear, whispering to her before brushing his lips against her cheek, temple and forehead. Standing nearby, Katie noticed the same thing she had noticed downstairs. Miss Street's vitals improved visibly when he was with her. If that happened again, she was going to have to do something about it.

"Okay, Mr. Mason," seeing the tortured look on his face she said, "Don't worry. I'm on your side. It's just they'll be back any minute and I don't want them to know you were in here so we can get you in again…"

Perry almost had it in him to smile at her.

How long had he been staring down, he wondered? He wasn't sure but when he saw two feet in front of him he raised his red-rimmed eyes. Former Lt. Andy Anderson, now on the far side of middle-age and a very well-respected LAPD Captain, had his hand on Mason's shoulder.

"How is she, Counselor?"

Perry just shook his head. "They can't stabilize her."

"I'm sorry, Perry. There's not another girl like Della Street in the world," Andy paused before going on, trying out several combinations of the next few words. "We all know… how important … you two are to one another."

Perry gave a quick nod.

"That's one devoted girl you've got there, Counselor. I guess most of us always knew that but this…this was something."

"What?"

Andy stood staring at him quizzically, "Don't you know?"

"What?" Even with his heart breaking Perry was impatient.

"Della was the _only_ one who saw the girl and the gun Perry; the only one who saw what was happening. We've looked at the security tapes from five different angles, literally _five different angles_. She didn't just happen to be there—Della _took_ those bullets on purpose."

Many times Della Street had made Perry Mason swoon but never had he felt his head buzz like this, or seen a room spin on its corner. Immediately Paul stood up and went over to his best friend who had turned ashen, afraid he might pass out.

"Della saw Celia Childs come at you, pitched her briefcase at her we think to buy time so she could reach you, then threw herself in front of you. We can't be sure why she turned her back to face you but she blocked those bullets.

If she hadn't," Andy shook his head, "Those three bullets would have gotten you in the left shoulder and chest, all around or in the heart. Huh, maybe that's why she turned _her_ body."

"Mr. Mason, quick," it was the little nurse. "She's not doing well…"

Dazed from the news that Della had risked her life to save him, Perry's legs felt leaden when he tried to move. Seeing this Paul grabbed his arm, helping propel him up and through the door.

Kissing her forehead slowly he very gently lifted her hand. "Della, I'm here. Don't you leave me, remember what I said, baby; you go, I go."

Katie watched Della's vitals go up estimably then ran to the door, "Doctor, could you come here, please."

Dr. Jacobson looked at the young woman's notes confirming that every time Perry Mason was allowed to see Della Street she improved significantly. The head of ICU was called to consult while Katie arranged for a lounger to be delivered from maternity and placed next to Della's bed.

"You stay here, hold her hand, whisper sweet nothings in her ear," she smiled. "Let her rest, too, though okay?" Perry nodded dutifully. Katie patted his shoulder as she went to show the head of ICU the numbers she had recorded with and without the medicinal Perry Mason.

Katie next announced to their friends that Perry would be staying overnight with Miss Street and why.

"Isn't that incredible?" Katie asked the group rather proud of her discovery and stunned that they were all… underwhelmed.

Paul Sr. finally piped up. "Any one of us could have told you that that would happen."

For the next 16 hours Perry stayed by Della's side never letting go of her hand, whispering those "sweet nothings" to her any time she started to flag. Throughout the night surgeons paraded in and left amazed at her progress. When they left for the last time just after eight in the morning, they announced to the group that Della was a miracle.

"Doc," laughed Paul, "You keep telling us what we already know. Tell us something we don't."

"Well, barring any unforeseen circumstances, your friend is going to make it. How's that for a miracle?" The surgeon was smiling at Paul who was crying. Perry watching the happy people on the other side of the glass partition, left Della's side for a moment to address the troops; but not before whispering in her ear why and where he was going and that he would be right back.

"We …love you all… Now please go home and rest. As soon as she's in a regular room I'll arrange for all of you to see her… Thank you…I…"

One by one they walked over and hugged Mason, sparing him the embarrassment of being human, then took their leave. When Junior came over Perry smiled and asked him to "please go and sit with your mother while I excuse myself for a minute." A proud and relieved Paul, Jr. rushed in quietly to be by her side.

"Paul," Perry leaned into his best friend's ear," This isn't over; not by a long shot."

"Pal, just get her well. But…yeah…we've got trouble on our hands. I think we're dealing with, well…"

"Let's say it's more than we expected and leave it at that for now. Check out those two leads we got night before last."

"Right."

"But Paul… Be careful. I don't like any of this. And check out that Childs woman, where she is…"

But Paul interrupted. "I'll tell you where she is, downstairs in the morgue. Killed herself they say."

"You believe that?"

"No. No I do not."

"Find out what you can but I reiterate…"

"Be careful—don't have to tell me twice. Give her a kiss for me, will ya'?"

"Go give it to her yourself."

When Perry Mason came back he sent "The Pauls," as Della called them, home. Perry and Paul brushed shoulders as they passed, both taking a moment, then stopping and turning to give each other the most awkward yet heartfelt hug the nurses had ever seen.

Perry settled back in next to Della.

"When is your shift over young lady?" Perry had felt Katie standing near him.

"Midnight."

"I know a nurse's shift is long but…wait a minute…eight hours ago?"

Katie just smiled and walked around to the other side of the bed and adjusted a few settings on one of Della's many machines.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"Well, I've been reading about you guys my whole life; _sorta'_ caught up in the romance of it all I guess. You've been like movie stars."

Perry laughed at this.

"Hardly young lady, But we did have fun. Those days are over I'm afraid," Perry said troubled by the truth of his statement.

"Yeah, there's no glamour anymore, even in Hollywood," sighed Katie. "Well, maybe a little." Katie smiled watching the great attorney staring besotted at his gal Friday.

"Find the great love of your life, young lady," Perry said kissing Della's fingers completely unconcerned that he was being watched. "There will be plenty of glamour."

"Look!" whispered Katie. Della's eyelashes were fluttering. When she finally managed to get them open they went wide in terror.

"It's okay baby," Perry jumped up. "You're going to be fine. You had a bad time but you made it through." Della calmed down instantly but squeezed his hand.

"No sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere. You go back to sleep and I'll be right here." Della closed her eyes, falling back to sleep almost instantly.

"That goes for you, too." Perry said turning to Katie.

"No sir. I'm off until midnight. _You_ close _your_ eyes and get some sleep. I'm Miss Street's private nurse until you wake up," Perry started to protest but she went on. "Listen you look worse than she does and she was shot three times!"

Katie sat in a chair she pulled up next to him. "I'm going to sit right here until you wake up then I'll go home and sleep… meet ya' back here at midnight!" Katie winked.

Perry had to admit that he was exhausted, more so than he had ever been in his life. Although it hadn't occurred to him until she said it.

"You'll let us take you out to dinner when Miss Street is well?" Katie nodded enthusiastically. "Deal," Perry sighed.

Lying back in the chair he was asleep in less than 45 seconds by Katie's count. But it wasn't a restful sleep. In his dreams that morning he kept seeing Della get shot, her blood everywhere, the life draining out of her eyes. It was a scene that would haunt his sleep every single night, many times a night, for the next several months.

Della was not safe, not with him, not working for their practice. That fear began to dim a little as time passed but then came that horrible "accident," the car accident that killed Perry and Della's best friend. They couldn't prove it yet but Perry Mason was never wrong about these things and that was no accident that took Paul's life.

Perry knew that he was going to have to make a change.

When he put the call through to Laura's office in August, Della, who had recuperated fully and was back at work, was out getting lunch. Perry could hear the sound of triumph in Laura's voice. She said she would arrange the whole thing and that by September he would be on the bench.

Only Perry knew that protecting the one thing that mattered to him in this world was going to come at a terrible price; losing the one thing that mattered to him in this world.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Los Angeles, January 18**__**th**__**, 1985, 10PM**_

Della slipped beneath a thick layer of bubbles where, it had been her all-too frequent experience it was much easier to cry. Turning she flipped on the stereo in her bedroom by remote—another expense in which she had indulged because they both loved music so much. As Della sunk back in the tub Rosemary Clooney's voice floated above her.

_You'll never know just how much I love you  
You'll never know just how much I care  
And if I tried, I still couldn't hide my love for you  
You ought to know, for haven't I told you so  
A million or more times?_

_You'll never know just how much I miss you_  
_You'll never know just how much I care_  
_You said good-bye, the stars in the sky refuse to shine_  
_Take it from me, it's no fun to be alone_  
_With moonlight and memories_

_You went away and my heart went with you  
I speak your name in my ev'ry prayer  
If there is some other way to prove that I love you  
I swear I don't know how  
You'll never know if you don't know now  
_

Della felt a fresh wave of pain as she listened. As much as she loved this music sometimes it brought back too many memories of the old days: dinner and dancing late into the night; picnics on the beach, the surf crashing around them as they made love under the moonlight; midnight capers for a case followed by diner breakfasts of steak and eggs in the early hours of the morning.

After their adventures Paul would drive off in the night behind the wheel of his T-bird to meet some flame while she and Perry found their way to bed. There they were absorbed in each other, in their inexhaustible, unbridled, passion until dawn.

The next morning Perry Mason and Della Street would walk into their office or a courtroom, professional, expert. In deference, when people did speculate about the true nature of their friendship it was respect that kept tongues from wagging too much. This was also the "Della Effect," as Perry had dubbed it; well aware that people were always watching, she took great care to keep herself above reproach.

Those were the best days she, Perry, Paul, even Gertie and the boys downtown. When things changed life was still good, if not the same. They still saved the innocent, dashing around town to successfully chase the bad guys. True the "bad guys" were of a different variety now and were in every respect, worse. Perry, more famous than ever, was no longer the young renegade rather a 60 year-old grand master with graying hair and portly build; his ethics and record were unimpeachable. Even the "theatrics" he pioneered seemed comparatively tame as the years went by. They had excitement, challenge and, above all else, they had each other.

Then Laura Robertson came along and put the Judge bug in Perry's ear, at a time when he was at his most susceptible, questioning so much in his life. Laura had been trying, one way or another, to get him away from Della for almost 30 years and while it required her taking advantage of one murder and another near-miss, she had finally succeeded.

Losing Perry, Della could _almost_ have withstood but seeing him lose himself was just too much for her to bear. She fought Perry bitterly over his taking this appointment not just because she didn't want to alter their life together but because she knew him better than he knew himself. Della knew ultimately he would be miserable sitting and writing opinions instead of being out in the world solving crimes. But Della was fighting invisible demons that she didn't even know existed.

Proud but sad she watched as he was sworn in, trying to make the best of it. Had he asked her, Della would have married him this time. Things had changed so much and they were at a time in their life when a little convention might have been a respite. But he stopped asking after _that day_. Did he sense that she would finally say "yes?"

Ultimately Perry didn't even ask her to move to San Francisco with him, so, when Arthur Gordon made her an astonishing offer she had little choice but to take it. Silently, Perry was furious; very silently as he refused to speak more than cursory, necessary words to her for three days. They had met Gordon at functions in L.A. and he suspected Gordon had ulterior motives. But, as Della pointed out, she needed to work and Perry had made his decision.

In all of their years together they had never fought before, not seriously fought—their common goals so in sync that there was never any reason. But if being honest Perry realized that "their" common goals were really always his.

Della Street was unconventional in many ways—going through life with an often-dangerous career, no wedding ring, and no children at a time when every girl like Della got married and had a family. But one thing Della did have in common with other women of her generation was that she always put her man first.

At first the separation was so punishing neither of them thought they would survive it. Used to being together day and night around the clock they both felt that had lost a limb. Perry had thought, foolishly he realized in retrospect, that their lives revolved around their work but it became quickly and excruciatingly apparent that their lives had revolved around one another.

When he tried to put Della Street on the plane to Los Angeles after she had spent several weeks in San Francisco helping him get set up, he couldn't let go of her. Six times over as many days he took her to the airport only to bring her back to his apartment, the two of them in tears and holding each other.

It was Perry's ulterior motive—the only thing he cared about in the world, keeping Della safe—that kept him resolute. Almost.

Given the anguish of the past 8 months—the shooting, Paul's death, the office closing and Perry's defection—Della wanted a house, maybe it would serve as a home base for _both_ of them. When she drove by the charming white Cape Cod surrounded by a white picket fence, it was such an anomaly in L.A. she thought perhaps she had stumbled on a Hollywood set.

There was a "for sale" sign on the front lawn and since it was empty, and since Paul taught her how to pick a lock decades ago and since he just happened to give her a (sterling silver) half-diamond pick for Christmas one year… Della let herself in.

With old moldings, a mahogany paneled library, bay windows, French doors and trellises covered with pink climbing roses and morning glories, it stole her sentimental heart. When she told Perry he asked to see it. There was so much he hadn't given Della over the years he hoped that maybe he could finally give her a home.

Della let them in the same way she had gotten in earlier.

"Della, I do believe that Paul and I were a very bad influence on you," he folded his hands in front of him and looked at his shoes. "Yes, a _very_ bad influence, indeed."

Laughing, Della pushed him inside and proceeded to drag him from room to room. Seldom had he seen her so excited. When he surprised her with the deed in her name just a few days later she threw her arms around his neck and couldn't stop kissing him.

"I would have bought it myself," she gave him a teary, sidelong glance, "but this way it's _ours_."

A few days later he was appreciating how hard she had worked to maintain _her_ lissome figure, as he swung her up into his arms to carry her, rolling her eyes and laughing, over the threshold of "their" new home. Setting her down, he gave her a long kiss then left to get the picnic dinner and champagne that he had hidden in the trunk.

Taking her hand, Perry led a skeptical Della upstairs to the master bedroom. Before opening the door he said, "I would never presume to decorate a Christmas tree without you so you can do whatever you want later on. But I'll be damned if at 60 years old I am going to make love to you on the floor tonight."

Della laughed so hard more tears came to her eyes. When he opened the bedroom door there was the entire bedroom from his apartment. Stepping in she turned to him and just smiled. "I wouldn't change a thing."

"No, you should. It was just going into storage," his voice dropped off when sadness clouded her eyes, "This is just so we have somewhere until…"

"No," she said crossing to the fire in the fireplace. "It would make me very happy to leave it exactly this way. We've had thousands of happy nights in this very room."

Della tried to shake off the pain and when she failed, turned away. Perry went to her, wrapping her in his arms, stroking her hair and whispering in her ear. Della turned the rest of the house into a masterpiece of comfort and beauty but she left their bedroom as it was. They made love all night in his bed, in her house; one foot in their warm, happy, old life, one foot in their scary, uncharted new one.

An art minor she had considered being a fashion designer for a while and had seen to their apartments, their office, etc. Now with a whole house she had turned into "an obsessive little swatch-mad-tape-measure-toting nut," noted her endlessly amused ex-boss.

Using stone, tile, marble and Italian fixtures Della turned the guest bathrooms into tiny spas; the master suite into an opus. Perry Mason had been around the world and never seen a more luxurious bathroom. A large man, grown larger with age, rich food and spirits he prized the generous shower made of dazzling ochre-streaked, amber-flecked Italian marble, with its deep bench, his and hers' shower sprays and a steam shower.

Just outside, slightly sunken into the stone floor was an enormous oval tub that easily fit them both. Faucets and a hand-held shower spray were placed by Miss Street, very wisely Perry noted, in the middle. They had always loved to shower together and share a bath but now they were both a little embarrassed about the amount of time they spent in this room.

The elderly kitchen required more effort. Excellent cooks with different fortes the kitchen was an important room to them both. Della could work well anywhere but Perry admired gadgets and "extras" so she outfitted it for him. There was even a high counter across the side wall so he could prep without stooping and when his knee was particularly bad, he could just pull up one of the deep, broad leather bar chairs and sit while he chopped.

In the paneled library she placed wide leather wing back chairs near the window so he could check cases in peace and comfort and an enormous French Art Deco partner desk near the wall of books since they were so used to working at the same desk. They would pass many hours there on weekends, Perry reviewing cases, Della working on reports. Back and forth they would ask for each other's opinion, advice, help, just as they always had.

When Perry finally got the grand tour he was touched. The entire house, it seemed, was designed with him in mind. After years of Perry's extravagance on her, Della had gone out of her way to spoil him.

Della had hoped that Perry would come to see this as his home, a place where he could withdraw from the pressures of court and into the very private world they had always made for themselves when left alone. Initially not crazy about "this house idea," he instantly fell in love with it and saw, once again, just how wise Della Street really was.

Maintaining his resolve had gotten much harder and for a long while seemed unnecessary.

Perry had changed significantly and, Della felt, permanently but for the first few years the house brought them closer together after the initial distance that prompted the separation that never really came to fruition.

Then Perry saw a ghost; or two ghosts.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Los Angeles, April 30**__**th**__**, 1982**_

When the letter came to Arthur's office, Della didn't think anything of it. Arthur insisted she call Perry and her friends at Police Headquarters but Della refused explaining that they had had death threats the last two years Perry had his practice and they came to nothing.

But Della's near-death was newspaper legend and Arthur didn't understand how she could take this so lightly. She insisted, however, that unlike that unhinged woman whose lover had been murdered, these were garden variety cranks, nothing more. That the letter arrived after their picture appeared in the society page when she and Perry attended a Gordon function seem to end the conversation for her.

Not for Arthur Gordon, however, and certainly not for Perry Mason whom Gordon had called immediately. When Della returned from a protracted lunch meeting that afternoon two FBI agents, Captain Andy Anderson, Arthur and Perry were all waiting for her in Arthur's conference room.

Della was as angry as she had ever been, mostly at her new boss although she shot her former boss plenty of dirty looks, as well. Neither Perry nor Andy felt it had anything to do with the Childs' case but after they filled out all of the reports Andy took Perry and Della aside to deliver some news that did.

"Listen, Perry, I was going to call you today anyway," Andy held his hands together in front of him. "I know it's been five years but we're finally ruling Paul's death a homicide."

Della gasped and reached for Perry, "Oh, Andy…"

Perry held her against him tightly now, one arm around her shoulder where she had been shot, the other hand grasping the upper part of her other arm. Della turned into him and let out a faint sob. Stroking her hair he used comforting her to buy time before speaking, afraid he might not be able to get the words out.

"You found the car and matched the blood stains?"

"You always know, don't you? How do you do it? Yeah. And it has to be that case, Perry. It's all too much of a coincidence."

"Of course it's that case. This is no coincidence. You were right, baby," he said turning to Della, "We should never have taken it. I should have listened to you."

Andy looked down and away to give them privacy. He had never heard such intimacy from the two of them. But watching him hold her now, rocking her back and forth in what must have been one of their most painful moments, was hard for him to bear.

"No Perry, _you_ were right. Now more than ever it seems clear that you had to take it and that it was only the tip of the iceberg. We should never have let this go. God, I wish you were still…I suppose I…" but Della stopped herself.

Perry stopped rocking her and held her at arms' length. "Don't you get any ideas, 'Mrs. Charles.' You hear me?"

Perry kissed her temple as Della attempted a faint smile.

"We'll keep in touch, Perry; let you know what we hear as soon as we hear it." Andy turned putting on the fedora he still wore and stretched out his hand. When Perry took it warmly, Della reached out, too, putting her hand on both of theirs.

Then Perry, always irascible and prone to melancholia, became truly difficult.

Perry could not escape the fact that the person he loved more than anything in the world was still in danger—in danger because of him. In court, Perry Mason tended toward the verbose. In life it was completely the opposite; from the time he was a youngster, Perry often found he didn't have the words he needed. And now there was no way for him to express his fears to her.

Then there was the job which, as Della correctly predicted, he hated. Never a political animal he resented all of the "social" duties that accompanied such a position and got in the way. Perry felt trapped; trapped in a job he hated and without the woman he adored.

Della ignored the clipped responses, diminishing sex, increasing reliance on bourbon and bursts of anger, all so unlike her love. Della knew how unhappy he was, how deeply he missed their life and work; a life to which he felt he could never return without risking a life that was dearer to him than his own. Although in his inability to talk to her about anything that had happened that spring in 1977, Della never knew about his fears.

A month later, on Memorial Day weekend in 1982, a distant and distracted Perry launched an attack Della never saw coming. They had been sitting on the patio silently finishing a dinner of Dover sole, a potato gratin soaked in heavy cream and haricots verts that she had prepared. A light breeze made the trees, laced with tiny white fairy lights, rustle like silk skirts on a dance floor. White candles dotted the table and little wrought iron side tables. One of his favorite whites was chilling in the ice bucket and she wore a particularly fetching new dress in his favorite color on her, a dusty, pale pink.

"Do you think we've been drifting apart?" he asked her after dinner.

"Well," Della began slowly, on very uncertain ground. "You're very far away most of the time and you either won't or don't know how, to let me in. And we _are_ apart, which is extremely difficult. Don't forget, dear, when you took this job we had been together night and day, at work and at home for almost 30 years. Couples joke about their other half but you really are half of me," she smiled and stroked his knee.

"Maybe we should have an… _understanding_," he got up abruptly, letting her hand drop, and walked toward the edge of the pool, looking into his glass of wine.

Had he not moved so abruptly from her touch, for the first time ever, she would have thought Perry was once again suggesting marriage, a thought Della had been having with some frequency in recent months. They had been together more than half her life, maybe it was time. Or maybe it was a way of holding onto the most important thing in her life, which she feared might be slipping away.

"An understanding? What does that mean exactly, Perry?" The weakness in her knees traveled up her body, until her voice trembled. Perry heard it, too, and turned away from her.

For once he found the honest sweetness of Della Street unbearable.

"Open our lives," he paused fully knowing the blow he was about to deliver, "to other people."

From the time she met Perry Mason in 1949, Della Street hadn't considered another man. They took years to find one another completely but when they did it was explosive. Staying single, technically, and working side-by-side meant that they (meant that _she_) had to navigate perilous social and professional waters to be together, especially in the 1950s and 60s when women were so easily marked "whore."

Perry wasn't the kind of man who was meant to marry and have a family no matter how many times he asked her to accept his ring. Part of why he _asked_ so often, Della felt, was that deep down he knew the truth but asking was his way of showing her how much he loved her. As for children, Perry Mason as a father? Hardly; much as Della may have wanted to be a mother and as good as she thought she might have been at the job.

Della Street had weathered all of this with immense charm and good grace. She had sacrificed greatly for propriety, to be able to do the work she loved while also being with the man she considered her soul mate. Even now, via long distance, she had done everything she could to make it work, to make it easy on him.

Now Perry wanted other women and when the words came out of his mouth Della felt her body lurch forward a bit as if she had been shot... again.

"If that's what you need, my love," she had said doing her bravest Della Street.

"I meant both of us."

Limbs useless, mouth dry, Della just shook her head and looked down hoping the tears fell into her lap unseen.

But they were seen and registered.

And with that, Perry Mason broke the heart of Della Street.

What was she to do? All that was left to her, and who knew for how long, was to see get together when it suited him and his schedule until he came to his senses or someone else swept him off his feet. Della's money was on the latter. She hadn't been altogether sure that she could continue to try and keep him from being his own worst enemy. But she tried.

Three years later it was taking its toll. Her heart ached. Her soul ached. Perry was almost unrecognizable as the man she met in 1949. They were still seeing one another but only because she made it happen and while the passion continued so did his emotional distance. After tonight, though, Della wasn't sure how much more she was willing to fight.

Eventually her crying subsided, as it always did. All that was left were sharp little edges of pain all around her like shattered glass. Closing her eyes and leaning back in the tub she swore she could feel his hands on her body. What was wrong with her anyway? Where did self-respect start and love end?

Drying off she was suddenly so tired, and a bit tight, it was all she could do to get into bed. After rummaging around the closet for a while, naked and damp, she found the pajamas she wanted putting on the top and throwing the pants on a chair. She crawled into his side of the bed and felt hot tears in the back of her throat all over again.

"Damn…" she sighed.


	8. Chapter 8

This was an unexpected chapter but I realized I was missing an imperative bridge. I hope that it's okay! I spent one month on Chapter 9, but only one day on 8, LOL! Thanks for everyone's input!

_**San Francisco, January 18**__**th**__**, 9PM**_

Nursing a Maker's Mark, neat, Perry stood in the hall of the Regency ballroom listening to a stellar orchestra inside and longing for her. "Face-to-face" with a rather unfortunate Ficus tree decorated with red lights and clip on cardinals, he harbored nothing but empathy for the misplaced thing.

Perry realized tonight that his hatred of these social commitments coincided with moving to San Francisco and this job. In the past, with both he and Della serving on so many boards and committees, Perry enjoyed their frequent fundraising obligations. They raised significant money for needy causes, predominantly children and legal aid, socialized without having to get too close to people and danced for hours to music that had otherwise disappeared.

Della made Perry, all 325 pounds and 6'2" inches of him, feel like Fred Astaire. Smooth, elegant and a wonderful leader, she simply floated making him look even better than he was. A reserved couple—protective behavior they had cultivated since 1949—they were allowing themselves more latitude as they aged, often showing great affection in each other's arms, and even showing off a bit. Some evenings Perry Mason, Esq., exhibiting astonishing grace for a man of princely proportions, whirled Della Street around the dance floor with such complicated and fluid moves that the floor opened for them alone, their exhibition drawing applause at song's end.

Watching the dance floor Perry admired the sparkling women in their gowns and jewels, hanging in the ballroom like chandelier crystals. There would always be taller, thinner, younger, and even, occasionally, more beautiful women than Della Street. But she had something so special you could not take your eyes off her. Even in a room thick with movie stars Della stood out.

Over their shared decades Perry watched as she transitioned from adorable to beautiful to stunning and now, aged in wood, she was flat-out gorgeous. Evening gowns happened to suit Della well and she had a collection of gems, many of which she designed herself. Often frustrated by the lack of inspired evening clothes available she used her art training to sketch designs for her seamstress to make. Understanding her own physical attributes well, the gowns' silhouettes varied but they always boasted thigh high slits on her right leg and audacious décolletage.

As Perry wandered around the main ballroom, marinating in thoughts of Della, he realized that giving her up, even if it was to protect her, was never going to work. She should have been on his arm tonight, every night; they would be having a grand time.

Kelly, his 26 year-old secretary, had hinted for weeks about being his date tonight but she was becoming a problem. Unlike other women who had learned quickly, Kelly did not understand that Perry offered nothing more than company. Kay, while only 32, was more self-possessed. Raven-haired and stunning, most men could not have resisted her. But then most men hadn't had the honor of being loved by, and in love with, Della Street since the first day they met.

"You know," Paul used to tease him, "You love her like a girl."

The first time Paul said that to him, before he and Della had even gotten together, Perry unthinking had replied that she _was_ a girl.

"Not her genius, you; you're in love with her the way girls fall in love with fella's."

Perry had scowled at him, eyes black with anger. "And what exactly does that mean?"

"You know. You're forever mooning and moping. 'Oh, Paul,'" Paul mimicked a feminine voice. "'Do you think she has feelings for me?' Brother. You're always touching her arm or hand and flattering her. You watch to see where she is in the room and ask her how she is or if she needs anything,"

Paul shook his shoulders as if he could get the image out of his head. "Very disconcerting."

Perry knew exactly what Paul meant. A solitary childhood with much older parents, a nature susceptible to any slight and a high level of intelligence left Perry an extremely vulnerable man, especially where love was concerned. Della Street, and only Della Street, knew that behind the proud, tough, monolithic façade hid a tender soul with very little resilience. She had recognized it, and fell in love with it, the very first day she met him.

"What am I doing here," he accidentally said aloud.

"Taking me for a spin on the dance floor I do hope," Laura was standing next to him, her slender figure encased in silver lame.

"I'm not up for it, my dear."

"Come now…"

"No, Laura!" Perry had raised his voice.

"You _do _look glum. That little D.A. used to be a law clerk of Ken's-breath taking, bright girl, you should be much happier than this. Come meet some people."

Laura couldn't have cared less how attractive, young, or brilliant the girl was as long as she was not Miss Street. Only Della was dangerous to her and she was out of the picture. It did seem odd that Perry had forsaken her, particularly after she took all those bullets for him but Laura certainly wasn't one to question good fortune.

"Laura, I don't think it's a good idea. I'm not in the mood to be anything other than my cantankerous self tonight. Besides I already know too many of these people. They say L.A. is a shallow town. It's nothing compared to this."

"Oh, darling," Said Laura dragging him across the room.

They arrived at Ken's elbow, Perry shaking Ken's skeptical hand warmly. After meeting a gaggle of judges, the Governor of Nevada and two Senators, Perry was ready for a triple Maker's Mark. Laura had ensnared him, however, just as she had planned.

Perry knew that he deserved this. As a realist he understood that this nightmare was just part of the penance he owed for allowing fear to wreak havoc on their lives.

"So Mason," said one of the judges, he didn't know which as they all ran together in a great heap, "How do you like being a judge?"

"I don't."

Laura turned her head quickly to Perry, making a sign with her eyes while laughing at the same time.

"What Perry means is…"

"I mean that I don't like being a judge—I never did like many judges, most defense attorneys don't," Perry said. "And I miss my practice. I miss defending the innocent."

"You were something," another of the justices piped up. Perry thought Laura introduced him as Judge Tucker somebody—what kind of name was _that_ for a grown man?

"I used to come to court and watch your trials just to learn—nobody like you before or since. You could have inveigled the truth out of Nixon. The way you did your own legwork, then built your cases luring witnesses and the prosecution into your line of reasoning… it was masterful. We used to stop by a couple of times a week to watch you, and that striking secretary of yours. How is she by the way?"

"Fully recovered thankfully."

"Where is she? I'd love to see her," "Judge Tucker" interrupted spinning his head around the room…

"She's thriving in the corporate world."

"Not here tonight?"

"She lives in Los Angeles. Perry, what did you think of…," Laura, trying to change the subject, was interrupted.

"Amazing woman to live through that," "Judge Tucker" admired. "I'm going back into private practice—in Los Angeles as a matter of fact. I wonder if she wants a return to the legal world. Of course this is environmental law but, I promise you, it's the wave of the future! I'll take any woman who will throw herself in front of three slugs for her boss."

Perry really hated "Judge Tucker."

"What happened?" asked a young aide of the Governor's.

"Judge Mason's secretary was shot during a remarkably contentious case…three times in the chest by the murder victim's lover…those bullets were meant for her boss but she threw herself in front of him…almost died," said "Judge Tucker."

"Guess that would be enough to scare anyone out of private practice," giggled the aide into his drink.

"Wasn't fear, just…time for a change," Perry tried to be affable. Of course, it actually _was_ fear that drove him up here, just not for himself as they posited.

"Oh, c'mon," said a colleague on the Appellate Court who had imbibed entirely too much scotch. "Your lead investigator died in a car crash…? You're _girlfriend_ nearly gets executed… sorry you're _secretary_… then all of a sudden the great Perry Mason, the most successful attorney in the country, is no longer practicing law.

"Timing, Chuck, purely a matter of timing. Hope you're not driving tonight." Perry turned to walk away.

"Well," tried "Judge Tucker," for whom Perry had come up with a "rhymes-with" nickname, "At least Northern California can keep you in good wine. I hear that you're a collector."

"I only drink French wine, Napa wines hold no appeal for me; at least until I plant my own vineyard someday," and with that Perry turned on his heel and left them with their jaws on the floor.

"Perry let's head over to…" said Laura pulling his arm. Perry stopped her and gently removed her hand from his arm.

"Laura enough. If you'll excuse me I need a moment alone."

Perry headed toward the bourbon.

Life, thought Perry Mason, was decidedly too short. It was time to grab all of the lifelines Della had been throwing him for almost eight years and weave a rope to pull himself out of the mess he had helped create.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Los Angeles, January 19**__**th**__**, 1985 1AM**_

Stupid tuxedo, Perry Mason thought as he tugged at the hooks on his cumber bund. Actually when he went anywhere with Della he loved wearing his tux, choosing his accessories from an array that they had had made to match the color of her gowns. No, it wasn't the tuxedo. Perry was determined to end his misplaced anger…especially at his rather defenseless clothes!

Having lit out of that ballroom for his car with his double bourbon still in his hand, he offered no polite excuses to anyone, saying good-bye only to Ken and Kay. Admonishing him for what they both knew would be the final time Kay had told him—not without a sense of humor—that he needed to go find Della Street because he was absolutely no good to any other woman. Agreeing, he kissed her hand with a modest bow and he took his leave.

Cheerfully winding his way through the crowd he spotted Ken Robertson and tapped him on the shoulder, "Ken, I need to ask a favor."

Rolling his glass in his hand, Ken replied grudgingly, "Well, I certainly owe you for all of that board work you did—shall I leave you and Laura alone in our room for a while?"

Perry ignored the comment, which he knew came from jealousy, an emotion he understood all too well. "See that Ms. Callahan gets home, will you? At least that she has a way home?"

"Hurrying out of here? What's so urgent? Laura's disappointment will be…extreme."

"Della."

"Is she alright?" Ken, worried, dropped the sarcasm.

Ironically, Ken and Della had also known one another in a past life—at one of her first law firms—although not as well as Perry and Laura. When occasionally comparing notes on the Laura-Perry dynamic Ken would end the conversation by suggesting that they renew their acquaintance, too. Della just gave him a peck on the cheek and pursed her lips.

"Always," Perry said patting his arm. In an unusual burst of candor he continued, "No thanks to me I might add. But I miss her and I'm going home where I belong."

"Huh. Well, leaving aside my stake in this, I have to tell you Perry, I never could understand how _anyone_ else_," _Ken allowed a pregnant pause. "Could make you take your eyes off Della for even a moment."

"Laura will never understand the value of what she has, Ken, same way with me—until she couldn't have me. Why don't you take a little…vacation?" Ken gave Perry, who took his hand in a warm shake, a surprised smile.

"Go home, _Counselor._ I'll make sure your date remembers where she parked her Big Wheel."

The sound of Perry's laughter followed him out of the hall.

As he turned the lock the potency of Perry's relief made his legs weak. After punching in the alarm code, he picked his way carefully around the furniture in the dark then lumbered up the stairs, shepherded by the soft glow of her nightstand lamp getting brighter as he drew closer.

Peeking around the door he found her curled around his pillow like a kitten, fast asleep. Those incredible legs were crossed at the lower shin, with one knee higher than the other and a hint of her lace panties showing, instantly reminding him of the pin up girl posters his Navy buddies coveted during the war.

Dried tear splotches on the pillowcase, an empty, crystal highball bordered with curvy, pink lip prints, and a nightstand littered with rumpled Kleenex were tangible proof of just how bad her night had been; and just how bitter, selfish, churlish and, yes, frightened, an ass he had become these last several years. But there was something else, something that reminded Perry of the depth of the love he was missing out on and it stopped his breath.

By 1967 Perry was 50 and Della was only five years behind. Even then they had to be careful about how often they were seen going in and out of each other's apartments. But having to part late at night when all that you wanted was the comfort of the person closest to you was profoundly painful. That, Paul said, was obviously why they spent so many hours at the office.

One night, deep into a difficult trial when they were both a little fragile, Perry apologized for having to leave her. "We chose this, Perry. Besides you don't have to worry about me," she stopped, tipping her chin way up. "Necessity is the mother of invention and I came up with a quite reliable substitute long ago."

Perry had looked at her more than a little irked but what she said melted his heart. "When I get really lonely I slip into your pajamas and I'm instantly in your arms—more or less." Turning on her mules she threw him her sexiest glance and disappeared inside.

Now here she was after 36 years alone in bed—as she had spent a criminal number of nights in her life—and dwarfing that little body was a man's navy silk pajama top, size XXL. In all of their years together he had never seen her to do that before and now, it just about did him in.

Pulling over her vanity stool, he laid his pajama bottoms over his lap and sat studying her lovely face; the high cheekbones sprinkled liberally with freckles, perfect, curvaceous mouth, naturally arched brows, long, silky lashes, tiny nose and angel chin. Paul Drake's voice found him from far away, repeating one of his favorite refrains.

"You know Perry, that girl could have literally any man she wanted if she ever thought about any other man. All she'd have to do is set her cap for him. I'm still not convinced _you_ deserve her."

Quietly Perry removed his clothes donning the pajama bottom. Not entirely sure he could manage it with his knee, since he nearly went down just getting into his pajamas, he leaned over Della, slid his arms under her and gently, gently lifted her up and into his lap as he sat back on the bed.

Groggy and confused Della put a hand on his naked chest. "Are you really here… or am I dreaming again?"

"I'm here, baby," he said cupping her cheek with his hand, "Although why you would still want me is a mystery. But then you, Della Street, are the one mystery I never could solve."

"I'm a mystery? _I'm_ a mystery," she rolled her eyes and laughed with a mordant edge.

Perry just dropped his head. Sighing Della brought her hand under his chin lifting his beautiful face, spellbound by the unexpected map of pain she found there; pain he had clearly been hiding for so long that it formed heavy creases in his brow, purple circles under his lower lids and, left those mesmerizing eyes, once like jewels, pale and lifeless.

"Oh, my love," Della began to cry for him. "Perry you _have to talk to me_. I haven't understood _any_ of this. Not running away to a job you didn't want and away from me… _from us_. Please you _must_ tell me what this is."

Della turned toward him, her cleavage spilling out of the over-sized shirt while he stared, transfixed, his tears dappling her breasts.

"As much as I love you and God knows I do, I can't do this anymore, Perry. I would probably die without you but if we can't find our way back… "

Perry buried his leonine head in her bosom.

"Della how could you do that? How could you throw yourself in front of that insane woman and take those bullets?" Della slid off him, pulling Perry down into her lap as he wrapped his arms tightly around her hips.

"Perry you would have done the same thing. Look, honey, I don't remember much about that day, or the days after. But I remember one thing and you tell me if I'm remembering wrong." Della's voice was solid and strong now.

"We were on the steps, and you said something to the effect that if I didn't fight to live you weren't going to live on without me."

Perry looked up at her in shock. "Did you or did you not say that."

"I did."

"Do you think that _I_ could have lived on without _you_? At least this way I thought maybe we could have some control, that's why I turned toward you so she wouldn't hit me anywhere …important…" Della tried to laugh.

But Perry Mason had dissolved into little more than a hurt child who could not understand his pain.

"Of course," she continued, "Who thought she would fire three times, the _bitch_. At such a close range once certainly would have sufficed. Twice was overkill...but three times, that's just bad manners."

In spite of himself, Perry laughed at her cursing and her unerring, inexorable humor. Quickly his laughter mutated into something else, though. Unable to stem the tide of his tears, so long in coming, Perry finally let go.

"I nearly lost you Della. You died four times! You have no idea what it was like watching you die, _you_...

And then Paul killed in that accident, which I never thought was an accident…Oh, Dear God, Della, it was too much."

Alarmed by the depth of his grief, grief cloaked in and by distance these nearly eight years, Della held him as tightly as she could, rocking him back and forth, cooing softly in his ear.

"So you pushed me away…."

"Because we weren't safe anymore, in general had gotten so insane because the world, but specifically because of that case. I still don't think we are."

"Then we have to do something about it, my love."

"I can't risk your life again."

"Perry, you can't put me in a bubble. Whether we work together or not we are just people and very vulnerable to the elements," Della explained gently.

"But I can cut down the risk."

"At what cost? This…this torture you've visited upon us for nearly a decade? Perry I'm not alive when I'm not with you so I may as well be dead."

"Della!"

"It's the truth. We can't be apart. It's killing us both. This was never meant to be and it ends now. _I_ will not let it continue." Della's voice was adamant.

"But Della, he, she or they are still out there," said Perry propping himself up on an elbow.

"They sure are. But you and I are _an unbeatable team_; we always have been and we always will be."

"We are. Gonna' miss Paul, though," Perry's eyes filled with tears.

"About that my love, we owe him." Perry nodded.

"You want to call the shots for a while?" he smiled.

"Well, you have to admit," Della slid down in the sheets facing him with her head propped on an arm, "You've been calling them for almost 40 years; might be time to share, let me have a spin now and then."

If everyone else didn't fall in love with her immediately, too, Perry would have assumed that he was just being biased. Looking at her mess of unruly, dark curls, her smile and eyes that still shone with love for him the way they did at 27, Perry could not imagine how he had gotten so lucky. Through his tears he started to smile, like the sun breaking out in the middle of a rain shower. If there was a rainbow, it was Della and her indomitable spirit.

"Well," he chuckled, "I draw the line when it comes to dancing. I still lead."

"Hmm," Della pretended to think this over and then a sly grin spread across her lips. "Okay, Counselor, okay, this is negotiable. You can have the dance floor but tonight…I'm _on top_." Della whispered the last two words.

"Della Katherine!"

"Oooo, I love when you use my full name, Daddy…"

Perry's eyes went wide and laughing so hard he started to cry again.

Another 30 minutes and four fingers of bourbon later, Della finally managed to get America's most successful and distinguished defense attorney calmed down. Snuggling down into the bed to make good on her earlier promise, Perry's hands lifted his pajama top over her head. Enfolding her nearly naked body in his arms, she tucked her head in the crook of his neck delicately kissing him there, and stroking his shoulders with her soft fingertips.

Perry's hands started looking for—and found—every inch of her, leaving fiery trails on her cool skin. As if touching her for "real" for the first time in years, he couldn't get enough of her. Della moaned against his chest, feeling the man she once loved rediscovering her.

"Della…I think that I need to come home," he whispered.

"Perry, I think that you need to come home," she whispered back, running her lips behind his ear lobe and down his neck. The fingers on her left hand stroked Perry's chest, drawing rings around the sensitive skin there, her tongue following. With her head still against his chest, Della could hear Perry's groan come from deep inside.

"It's going to take me a while to step down properly; probably take a year," he was struggling to concentrate but she had started her descent and it was making him incoherent. That beautiful heart-shaped mouth alternating soft kisses with sharp little bites down his chest, as his breath quickened and his moans got louder.

"Probably take a year…in the meantime…" Della said between nibbles.

"In the meantime we see each other…as often as…" he groaned as she went lower, his fingers tangled in the hair at the back of her neck. "As often as our schedules allow and in between we just, well _I_ just… deal with it. Then when I come back…"

But he couldn't finish his sentence. Della was tantalizing his lower belly with fingers like flower petals while her other hand pulled at his pajama bottom, which had become far too tight she acknowledged with her own deep moan.

Once she freed him she moved her mouth lower to place strategic kisses around his thighs.

"My God, Della…"

Della Street cut her soon-to-be boss off, "Then when you come back I give poor Arthur Gordon two months' notice to replace his executive assistant."

"Never happen," his voice was raspy and ragged. "Will find someone…know that woman … irreplaceable." Della knew he was on the edge so she stopped her ministrations and moved her mouth to meet his, slithering her body against his all the way up.

"Now how hard was that… so to speak?" Hovering over him she looked up through her long lashes, pursing her lips. Perry Mason was starting to feel whole again for the first time in many years. Pushing herself up Della gently placed a leg on either side of him and sat up.

In the office, everywhere really, Della Street was so cultivated, so refined, that her total abandon in bed never failed to turn him inside out.

"My nimble nymph," Perry smiled at her, putting his hands on her thin thighs.

"No that's why I put the music on so you can't hear the creaking," she laughed at herself.

Perry was admiring her in the moonlight. When had she managed to remove her panties, he wondered?

Stroking her arms he eased her back down to his mouth and began kissing her deeply, their lips and tongues tangled, unable to part. Perry's incisive hands crossed her soft back over the deep scars that were finally fading. Trying to fend off his pain, Della pulled back, looking deep in his eyes for a few moments then kissed him sweetly.

"Don't you ever regret those, my one and only love; I don't. I'm proud of them. I thank God every single day for those scars."

Perry opened her lips wider with his own, kissing her so deeply he felt as if he had fallen into her. His fingers playing along the curve of her spine made her shiver. When he brought his hands around the swell of her small hips he could feel her pressing against him, feel the dampness that showed him just how aroused she was.

Their moans wrapped around each other now growing louder until, panting, Della pulled back.

"Too close?" he chuckled.

"I need a minute, honey, or the next kiss will be it," she said, her chest heaving. The moonlight having worked its way around to the side window now, dripped off those beautiful cheekbones and illuminated her eyes. Pulling his good knee up, she leaned back to rest, giving him a staggering view. They held hands, staring into each other's eyes.

Although it had been a few months since they had made love bed was the place they could always find their way back to one another. Tonight, however, was very different. This was passion from their very first days together, when each night was a revelation and every touch so crisp, so clear, it threatened to send them vaulting over the edge.

With his strong hands gripping her upper arms, a sign of his possessiveness that she always loved, Perry pulled her toward him, his mouth merciless on her cleavage. Countless nights Perry merely playing against this soft flesh sent Della into oblivion and now she struggled to keep her wits about her finally begging him to stop before it was too late.

"That's not how I want it," she panted.

"Tell me," he encouraged her.

"I want you inside me," Della's deep voice lured him in as she fell on him again their lips ceaselessly hungry for each other.

"Guide me, baby…" With Perry pleading in her ear Della lifted herself up ever so slowly.

"Oh, Counselor," she murmured, "I think that you know your way after 36 years. But, as you wish my love…"

As Della Street guided Perry Mason back to where he belonged she looked directly in his eyes. Feverish now, he wanted only her complete pleasure and regardless of her "stand" tonight, he knew what that meant. In one swift, stunning movement an unusually agile Perry flipped his secretary on her back without losing contact, covering her with his great form.

Della screamed, holding tight to his shoulders.

Perry dropped his mouth again, teasing the rigid rose-colored flesh with his tongue in the gentlest circles he could make enjoying her sweet scent and the salty trickle of sweat now forming between her lush breasts. Della's hand began to move between them and behind him, until he was tormented.

In all of their years together she had never been this loud, in part because so much of their life had been secret. But tonight, here in their home with Perry finally revived, there was simply nothing she could do about it and this never-before-heard volume and variety made Perry mad.

Locking eyes with her he raised himself up so slowly she wailed. Della arched to meet him but Perry, enjoying her desire more than he could ever enjoy his own, pulled away from her, torturously. Finally she reached her arms up around his neck, corralling him, and he drove himself to the bed forcefully as they screamed together. Even after she stopped undulating Perry kept pressing into her causing guttural noises until she curled against him, whimpering.

Turning them on their side without parting for a moment, Perry cuddled Della close.

"Welcome back, my love," she whispered tears streaming down her cheeks.

"You'll never know how much I've missed you, baby. I will spend forever making it up to you."

"You've got nothing to make up for, Counselor. Let's just… love each other, okay? Just like the old days, let me love you."

"Oh, baby," Perry said kissing her lips. "I love you so. I love you so much more than you could ever know. Next time, Della, you have my permission to club me." Perry wiped away her tears, the back of his fingers sweeping across her cheeks.

"Perry," Della's chuckle was filled with sarcasm and exasperation. "If there _is_ a next time, I'm going to kill us both. Case closed, Counselor."

"Be a fitting end wouldn't it?"

"Long as we go together," Della snuggled in giggling against his chest as they fell asleep exactly as they did in their first years together, arms and legs entwined, never having lost contact, laughing and entirely impressed with themselves.

As if making up for lost time they stayed in bed all day Saturday except for trips to the kitchen for sustenance and a long "soak" in their enormous bathtub. Sunday, out of necessity, they actually left the house having run out of food. But the third time Della's toes, peeking out from her mules, climbed his leg and ducked under his napkin Perry had to call the waiter over to pack their steaks to go.

"Can you get up to leave?" Della laughed at his predicament, her impossibly deep voice doing nothing to help, which he mentioned.

"You're not helping," his eyebrows were raised.

"Sorry, Chief," her shoulders were bobbing up and down.

"This is your fault. You are going to have to help get me out of here."

Della drained her glass before she stood, enjoying his discomfort immensely. "You know dear, much younger men would be very envious of that rapid reaction. You should feel very proud."

"No, Miss Street. I think that _you_ should feel very proud!"

With that Della Street stood, let him get out of the banquet behind her, and handed him the bag of steaks to carry—in front of him. With Della walking as close to Perry as possible they finally got out the door, laughing. As they waited Della kept teasing him, inching away until Perry held her firmly in front of him his arms wrapped tightly around her waist.

When Monday rolled languidly around, it turned into a day of firsts for Perry Mason.

As a cheeky stretch of early morning light found them, Della marveled at the change that had taken place in Perry over the last 48. Only now that she recognized him again could Della see how far away he had been. Sleeping with his head on her chest Della studied his face, admiring how the lines had smoothed and the darkness had cleared; there was even a funny little smile curling around his lips, which, cataloguing the previous evening's activities could have been any number of things.

Realizing how wretchedly she had missed Perry she couldn't stand to have him out of her sight for more than a few minutes. Originally Perry had called his office to say that he would arrive after lunch. While on hold with the airline, however, Miss Street came offering him a Bellini wearing only a pair of heels and a black satin robe that parted to reveal everything.

Taking the cocktail from his lovely, naked secretary, Perry swallowed the drink right down; he had a feeling he was going to need it. Leaning over her lips barely touched his in kisses so soft he was aroused instantly. Dropping the empty glass, fortunately on the rug thought the pragmatic Miss Della Street who was worried for her crystal Perry let his head fall back.

Della worked her way leisurely down Mr. Mason's eager torso and by the time the airline was on the phone his once and future secretary was on the carpet engaged in a first ever for Mr. Mason and Miss Street. Who knows what the poor airline representative heard but after 30 seconds Mr. Mason had dropped the phone—next to the champagne glass—on the floor and was roaring in paroxysms of ecstasy.

The second first came shortly after.

When he could breathe again, 67 year-old Perry Mason, searching the eyes of his beautiful girl who was now tucked into his lap, made an unprecedented move. For the first time in his life, he called in "sick." Blaming urgent business, which wasn't entirely a lie, he informed his office that he would be in Los Angeles for the better part of the week.

"What will you do while I'm at work, dear?" Della wondered, playing with his beard.

"I will cook you wonderful dinners, read and do other things that normal people do. Assuming I can recall how normal works. Also, I believe you said I had some spaces to look at and some people to meet in preparation for re-opening our office."

"We have to sort through your storage, too, and make room here for the things you would like to have in our house."

"Our home."

"Our home," Della agreed.

"And, of course, we have our first case."

Della was leaning in, now, listening.

"Alright, Mrs. Charles," he held her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "We finish what we started."

"And we get Paul's murderer."

"And we get Paul's murderer. As Sam Spade said in the _Maltese Falcon_, '_When a man's partner is killed, he's supposed to do something about it… it happens we're in the detective business. Well, when one of your organization gets killed, it's bad business to let the killer get away with it, bad all around bad for every detective everywhere.'_"

Della stroked Perry's beard, her eyes glistening. "We need to avenge…our wondering boy."

Perry held her as she cried softly. "Yes and I don't particularly care for someone chasing us out of our life."

"Us? Not us, pal…" Della tipped her head sideways, sniffling.

"You're right baby; no one chased you away did they, brave girl?" Perry took the handkerchief from his robe and wiped her eyes.

"Let's find them Perry, let's get them; for Paul, for us, for Little Paul."

"How is he?"

"Not good Chief; needs some guidance."

"I'll call him tomorrow. He'll want to be part of this, too. Okay Mrs. Charles, we're back in business. I'll do a little leg work this week."

"You can drop me off at work and, if you don't mind, pick me up in the evening. That way you can have the car," Della liked the sound of that.

"I like the sound of that, Miss Street," he was grinning so widely now that he was starting to look like his much younger self.

Sipping her Bellini, still perched on Perry's lap, Della considered him with narrowed eyes. With a slight, sassy bob of her head she indicated the phone and Perry obliged, watching her curiously. Prompted by her lover's bold behavior, Miss Street phoned _her_ employer saying that she, too, had urgent business and would need to be gone from Thursday until next Monday. And that she wasn't going to make it in today, either.

Before she could get off with her assistant, she heard Arthur Gordon's gruff voice on the phone.

"Get off the phone," Arthur dismissed the poor girl. "Della, are you alright?"

"I 'm fine, Arthur, I'm…"

"He back?"

"Yes. Yes he is." There was a long pause.

"Good." With that he hung up the phone.

Della smiled at Perry a little sadly as she hung up the phone. Perry couldn't be sad for his rival in fact, he hadn't smiled this much in years. When he finally got USAir on the phone again, he arranged for two seats on the San Francisco shuttle for Thursday morning and one return for Della on Monday morning; although, even as he made the reservation he wondered if he would be able to let her go back alone…or at all.

Renewed by their love and the idea that he was no longer impotent to do anything to protect the people he loved, Perry was a changed man. He would never be the arrogant, self-assured fellow of his youth, but more the better he thought.

They arranged to see one another when work didn't overwhelm but spoke every morning and every night before they put their heads to pillow often falling asleep mid-conversation. Rarely did a day pass when they didn't catch up over lunch or tea in the afternoon, too. They shared their goals again, and it didn't even matter that those goals were mostly about him. Of course, to Della, it never had.

So, when the call came a few months later, Perry's blood ran cold.

"Perry…I'm in trouble." Della Street said, her voice quaking.

"My God Della what is it?" In 36 years he had never heard her sound like this. Not even when she helped out her friend Janet Brent and Burger nearly charged her as an accessory to murder.

"I've been arrested, Perry."

"For what?" he screamed into the phone.

"Arthur Gordon was murdered last night. They called me to the office for questioning this morning and arrested me for first degree murder after searching my house."

"Dear God, Della! You let the police search your house without calling me?" he screamed into the phone. "Where the Hell is Andy?"

"Perry, please don't ...I had nothing to hide so…"

"Have you been booked? Finger printed?" He couldn't believe that he was asking that of Della Street.

"Yes," he could hear her voice trembling.

"Della…you're incarcerated?' Perry was incredulous.

"Yes, Perry. Who should I call to represent me?" Della was crying now, although she was trying hard to hide it, and the thought of not being there with her made him physically ill.

"Baby, I'll be there in an hour and a half."

Perry had Kelly charter a puddle jumper and sped to the airport. In the air he tried to figure out how he would pitch this to her. Their plan was that he would step down January 1st. and that's what the court was preparing for but who would do as good a job as Perry Mason?

If she balked, when she balked, he was prepared to tell her the truth. No one was as good as he was and he was sick of this damn job anyway. But he knew that he had to be careful how he said it to her, too emphatic and she would either start to worry or fight him on his decision; knowing Della probably both. Cool, calm and collected, as if she were any other client; that was his tact.

The sight of Della Street in jail was shocking and almost blew the whole plan. His immediate goal was to get her the Hell out of there now.

"Since you called this morning I've been trying to think who should represent you. The best man I can think of… is me," said the Perry of old, calm, professional to the point of distant, strong, assured, eyes brilliant.

"Since when," she said crying "Are appellate court judges allowed to represent defendants?"

"They're not," he stated matter-of-factly.

"You'd have to step down."

"I signed my resignation," he said in his courtroom voice.

Della started to protest. Perry put a hand up, "Della, let's say… I got tired of writing opinions."

Perry went to her grabbing her as she fell crying into his arms, "Oh, Perry…"

Perry, still stunned, held her close stroking her arms for the first time completely unconcerned with who might be watching. Della pulled away to look at him then fell back into his arms nuzzling her head in his shoulder crying as he stroked her and held her tight.

When Perry Mason and Della Street decided to return to private practice who could ever have known that Della would be their first client?


End file.
